Take Me to Flavortown: An American Love Story
by xxxsaucyjanet69xxx
Summary: Steve Rogers is cruising down Route 66 when hunger strikes. Little does he know that this will lead to an unexpected encounter- and an unexpected romantic adventure.
1. Chapter 1

Steve Rogers was cruising down Route 66 in his 1959 Cadillac Eldorado. He was on his way to meet Nick Fury at an undisclosed location to discuss important world-saving matters.

Suddenly, however, a piercing hunger resonated deep in his stomach chambers.

"Say, I sure could go for a burger right now," Steve exclaimed. Out of the corner of his watery blue eyes, he spotted a glistening sign boasting the words, "Next Exit: Babe's Chicken Dinner House". His salivary glands tingled with delight, and he veered his vehicle to the right, gliding nonchalantly off the interstate.

Before long, Steve found the entrance to Babe's Chicken Dinner House and performed a stunning parallel park, eager to quell his overwhelming hunger. He aggressively strode through the doors, fists clenching and unclenching, for he was so restless to get some of that American cuisine. A stunning waitress approached Steve to seat him, but he took no notice of her appearance, for his only thought was his growing starvation.

"Table for one?" asked the waitress.

"Yes, plea-" Steve began, but was cut off mid-sentence as he spotted a loud, boisterous man across the room.

In the dim lighting of the diner, the man, who appeared to be in his early 50s, was pulling apart a chicken wing, eyes glazed with concentration. Steve couldn't help but admire the way his thick fingers skillfully worked, the way his sunglasses rested on the back of his folded neck. His button-up Hawaiian shirt boasted neon orange flames that complimented his shiny tan skin so perfectly, Steve's heart skipped a beat.

Steve was so caught up in his observation that he did not notice the man looking up from his meal.

Their eyes met.

Steve gulped.

The man lifted his fingers to his lips and licked the grease off each digit, continuing to maintain eye contact. Steve felt heat rise in his cheeks. He bit his lip to prevent a moan from escaping. Those deep, dark eyes kept staring into his, and they seemed to go on to infinity. Steve felt himself floating.

"Sir?" the waitress questioned, waving her petite hands in front of Steve's occupied eyes. Steve nearly jumped out of his American flag boxers.

"Oh, yes, table for one, please," stammered Steve, licking his lips nervously. He wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow and followed the waitress to a table. His heart began to beat faster as he realized that the waitress was taking him to the table across from that man. He licked his lips once more and began fiddling with his 1959 Cadillac Eldorado keys. It took him four tries to grasp the back of the seat, for his hands were now sweating profusely. As he finally managed to pull out the chair and plop down, he could feel those eyes roaming his vulnerable body.

"What would you like to drink?" asked the waitress, ignoring the fact that Steve was visibly distressed.

"I'd like some of that ass," muttered Steve, staring at the man who was still eating his chicken.

"Excuse me?" asked the waitress, startled.

"JUST WATER, THANKS," Steve bellowed.

As the waitress left, Steve reached for the menu with shaking hands. He could feel his pit stains growing with each passing moment. He tried to focus on ordering food. He had been so hungry moments before, but now he had an insatiable hunger of another sort. The words made no sense to him; the hyperrealistic images of succulent appetizers had no appeal. He looked back up towards the direction of the man. The booth he had been sitting at was now empty. Steve swallowed the lump in his throat and frantically searched the room for the large man, who was nowhere in sight. Steve shook his head- he was probably in the bathroom, right? He probably just needed to take a shit after consuming so many wings.

But suddenly, Steve felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Chills ran down his spine.

"Mind if I join you?" a husky voice implored. Steve thought his heart was going to beat right out of his chest.

"S-sure," he managed to choke out. The large man plopped his large behind into the seat across from Steve, his large muscular calves tightening for a second. They sat in brief silence until the waitress returned. She raised an eyebrow at the man now accompanying Steve. She gave Steve a knowing smile and set his glass of water on the table.

"Y'all ready to order?" Steve panicked, for he hadn't yet read the menu. His eyes darted across the laminated pages, desperately searching for any sort of food item. The man across from him spoke up, "He'll have the Hoppin' John sautéed with barbecue sauce, Babe's Supreme Fatback Sandwich, and some Hushpuppies slathered with mayo."

"Would that be all?" the waitress asked, pen scribbling away.

"A gallon of sweet tea. And onion rings on the side. You know how I like 'em," he added with a wink.

"Comin' right up," the waitress nodded and walked off, her heels clacking on the tile floor. Steve noticed he was holding his breath the entire time, and exhaled loudly. He felt so utterly grateful that the man had just saved him from an extremely embarrassing situation.

"So," said the man, leaning forward. "You come here often?"

"First time, actually," Steve replied nervously. He could smell the musk of wings on the man's breath. He was so close that the crumbs in his beard were visible.

"Babe's Chicken Dinner House," the man said, musing. "Babe, I'd like to chicken your dinner at my house."

Steve's face went as red as the flames on the man's crinkly, sauce-stained shirt. (AN: We said the flames were orange, but suspension of disbelief) He didn't know what to say. He was torn between wishing he was back in his 1959 Cadillac Eldorado and wanting to know this man more.

"M'name's Guy," said the man, pointing his stubby finger in no particular direction with a snap. "Guy Fieri."

"Steve," said Steve. "Steve Rogers." He kept his hands under the table.

"Hm, sounds vaguely familiar," said Guy, stroking his coarse chin hairs. "Have I heard of you somewhere? Nah, probably not. But you should totally get to know me. I have my own show called _Diners, Drive-ins &amp; Dives_." He leaned closer. "Or _Triple D_, for short," he said coolly.

Guy rambled about himself for a while, licking the remnants of his long-gone wings from his fingers all the while. Steve listened intently, fascinated by this man's courageous culinary journeys.

"I… I really admire your career," stammered Steve.

They exchanged a brief smile, but to Steve, it felt like infinity.

The waitress returned, snapping Steve out of his trance. She was balancing the

four plates on her arms and placed them on the table.

"Oh, boy, I love it when the fatback extends off the plate like that," commented Guy. He rubbed his hands together. "You can take the silverware back." The waitress, being a minor character, left without us having to mention it. Oh wait.

Guy ran his hands through his wildly spiked hair and dug in. Steve could only stare at the way he scarfed down the grub, chugging down gulps of sweet tea between handfuls. It seemed like he never even stopped to breathe. Steve was strangely intoxicated.

In what seemed like minutes, Guy leaned back in his chair and rubbed his belly, releasing a resonating belch. He loosened his belt by a few notches, briefly exposing his stomach hair.

Steve glanced away, blushing. He had not eaten anything, but he still felt so satisfied. He couldn't help but notice barbecue sauce dribbling from Guy's lips. Steve wanted so badly to lap up the sauce off those succulent lips. Guy noticed him checking him out, and let out a deep chuckle. His devilish laugh put Steve over the edge. Without thinking, he found himself gravitating towards Guy's face, so close he can feel the man's warm breath against his skin. Suddenly a voice came out of nowhere, and Steve jumped back into his chair.

"Y'all finished here?" Steve blushed, and nodded his head at the waitress who interrupted them. She placed the bill on the table and went to pick up a plate. Guy snatched it out of her reach and began frantically licking the remaining sauce off the plate. The waitress, taken aback in shock, cleared her throat, "I guess I'll come back later for the plates."

Guy seductively slid him the bill. Steve didn't mind; he couldn't help but want to pay for Guy's meal. It was the least he could do. He slapped some bills down on the table, and rose from his seat. "Will I ever see you again?" He asked, tears welling in his eyes. Guy tried to play it off cool, and wiped his oily forehead.

"If fate allows it," Guy whispered, burping softly. He stood up and waddled out of the diner.

As quickly as it had begun, it had ended.

Steve stood there, an overwhelming emptiness consuming him. Steve couldn't care less about SHIELD or saving the world- this man was his world. A single tear rolled down his cheek.

Steve broke into a run in an emotional frenzy. How he longed to see the man's face once more, to run his hands through his frosted tips. He shoved a waitress aside, abandoning all reason, and made for the door. But Guy had been too quick. As Steve frantically searched the parking lot, the realization descended upon him: it was too late.

Guy was gone. Forever.

Steve stood in the middle of the lot, staring at his shoes. He fell to his knees. With a shriek that pierced the heavens, Steve cried out in emotional agony.

In the blur of his tears, he did not see the headlights approaching. Ironically, he did not even see the familiar face and frosted tips he had been searching for. With a gut-wrenching _crack_, Steve was hit by a red Ferrari, containing none other than Guy Fieri.

Everything went black.

AN: Hope you guys enjoyed my first fic. I really poured my heart into this one. :3 Please leave a review and follow! I will be posting updates as fast as my body allows, for I am withering away, but I have vowed to dedicate the last of my life force to completing this story. This is what I want to be remembered for.

Yours truly,

-Janet


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Hope u guys like it! Pls leave a review! ^-^

"He's waking up."

This was the first thing Steve Rogers heard as his sky-blue eyes fluttered open. He looked up from his plastered feet to see his committed fiance of 2 years, Sherlock Holmes.

"Dear, you're awake," said Sherlock in his deep, milky, resonating voice. Sherlock gazed at Steve with milky eyes that could pierce human flesh. (But Steve is already injured so this did not happen also Sherlock loves Steve very much so he would never hurt him). His milky white cheekbones, which could also pierce human flesh, had been moistened with concern for Steve. He loosened his $695 Gucci GG Diamante Jacquard silk wool shawl and stretched out a velvety milky white hand to caress Steve's soft face. Steve's milky eyes searched his own. "Perhaps you'd like a glass of milk?" whispered Sherlock. Sherlock knew that Steve loved milk. They used to milk cows together on their farm back in Wyoming. Sherlock was a pure American hunk of man, after all.

"How… How long was I out for?" asked Steve, looking around. He didn't remember much.

"You must have intended to say, 'For how long was I out', correct?" replied Sherlock, seductively correcting his grammar.

"Bitch please," muttered Steve sexily, tears welling in the baby blue eyes that now took up one-third of his face.

Sherlock couldn't resist that look that stretched the boundaries of human facial capabilities and should be extremely grotesque but that he found kawaii as fuck.

What happened next is fallen short by words, some say it was the passion that Sherlock struck deep into the loins of Steve; others say that it was divine intervention, an act of God! Regardless of the medium, Steve ripped the cast from his now limp sinews and stood up, declaring to the world his irrepresentative, and oddly sexual, desire for some choice nacho.

Steve's voice cut through the silence of the room and declared to Sherlock, "Fuck off, I'm getting some damn nachos!"

He didn't deserve Sherlock, Steve that is. Their relationship was fucked, to say the least. Steve would often drink until his blood ran thick, but Sherlock, that poor bastard, saw something in this devil-man, so he passively went along with his strange fiance's request.

"Dear, you're going to hurt yourself. There are no nachos in this hospital-" stammered Sherlock.

However, before Steve could reply, there was a brilliant explosion that could be seen for miles. Muffled screams could be heard from far-off rooms. This explosion occurred inside that very hospital room. Steve and Sherlock were on the floor now, coughing profusely. However, nothing in the room was harmed and the coughing was only a plot device to build tension, since attractive characters must be protected at all costs.

Steve opened an eye, and the cloud of smoke cleared. A tubby outline of a man could be faintly seen. The frosted tips came into visibility, as did the rest of his face, and his flaming button-up shirt.

All at once, Steve remembered. Tears once again welled in his eyes.

"The fuck?" muttered Sherlock, getting up and shaking the shrapnel out of his Gucci scarf. He saw an oily fat man standing beneath a hole in the wall a few inches away from the doorframe. The rest of the hospital was in ruins, but this room was intact.

"G-Guy, it's… it's you!" exclaimed Steve, feeling the heat rising to his cheeks.

"You know it," cackled Guy, nonchalantly taking a bite out of a chicken leg.

"There's a door right there, you know," said Steve, slightly baffled but nonetheless aroused. "What happened? Why am I here? Why are you here?"

"What the fuck?" repeated Sherlock, unheard.

"Welp, I was driving my ferrari out of the parking lot when I hear this big ol' thud, and I realized it was you. Of course I didn't want to go to jail again, and being a super famous TV star, I couldn't let that ruin my career, so I just left you there and drove off," Guy explained, wiping the chicken grease from his lips.

"Sorry to interject, but I, uh, found your crippled body on the roadside and admitted you to the hospital-" Sherlock began.

"Oh, Guy!" swooned Steve, hardly able to resist his urges. He couldn't believe how this man had once again saved him. "How can I ever repay you?"

A fedora appeared on Guy's head, and he promptly tipped it. "Well, m'lady, how 'bout we go hit it off at the gas station near my place? You, me, and a bucket of wings. The gas station makes great hot wings. I ate an entire truckload of them once." Guy chuckled, shaking his large head, "you wouldn't believe the diarrhea I had the next day. I was squirting chunks into the toilet for at least three hours."

"Steve, darling, what is going on?" asked Sherlock desperately.

"Sherlock, I…" stammered Steve. He simply could not ignore his burning desire for Guy. He looked at Sherlock with puppy eyes.

"Steve…" said Sherlock, returning the gaze. His heart broke audibly. "Does it… does it really have to be like thi-"

With the speed of a peregrine falcon taking a projectile shit while taped to a rocket launcher, Steve leapt up and stabbed Sherlock in the loins with a scalpel he had been concealing within the folds of his loins. Sherlock made a noise comparable to that of a legless orangutan in labor and crumpled to the ground.

"Get rekd m8," whimpered Steve. He knew he had to. "You meme so much to me… but Guy memes more." Steve reached into Sherlock's pocket and grabbed his wallet. He also unwound the $695 Gucci GG Diamante Jacquard silk wool shawl from his neck to sell later.

Guy wrapped his grubby hand around Steve's and leapt out the window, landing perfectly in the red ferrari below. "Let's roll," Guy said coolly, winking at the camera.

AN: Hope you guys liked it. Thank u 4 all the great reviews!3 I love u guys so much!1;) Their the only thing that keeps me going. My life force is fading. Not sure how much more I can write. :3 xoxoxoxox shout-out 2 my top reader Stephen idk what I'd do without her! Big thanks to my Ma, "I LOVE YA, MA"(Bobby B.). also john c reilly is sexy

Dedicated with love(platonic love) to my 8th grade earth science teacher


	3. Chapter 3

Guy Fieri and Steve Rogers were cruising in Guy's 1967 Chevy Camaro SS convertible.

For a while Steve just sat there in silence, enjoying the scenery of the burning hospital, listening to Guy ramble about his culinary expertise.

"WHOA!" exclaimed Guy suddenly. The 1967 Chevy Camaro SS convertible came screeching to a stop. Directly ahead was a HorseBurger™ (home of the famous Horse Massage combo deal).

"Why are we stopping?" questioned Steve questionably.

"We're gonna get some _grub_," replied Guy with haughty conviction. "And a horse massage, while we're at it."

"Alright, but who's that?" asked Steve, motioning to the ski-masked man who now held a knife to his throat.

"Oh, him. We're getting carjacked," responded Guy, rubbing the hairs on his chinny chin chin.

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Meanwhile, a rather tall, skinny figure dropped from the sky, like a god descending from heaven to salvage those from tribulation. Although, to one's disappointment, the being fell with less grace, and more like a dead manatee plummeting towards the earth. The body fell through the clouds above a 7-11 and crashed through the roof of the building. It flew through multiple shelves before landing next to the Slurpee machine. If he had bent his knees a little more, it would've been a perfect landing, qualifying for olympic gymnastics. A clerk stood in awe as the figure appeared unscathed. However, it was no big deal, as it was Sherlock. Brushing the rubble and crushed donuts off his clothes, Sherlock emitted an audible groan of disgust. 7-11 coffee stained the front of his 2,000 dollar royal purple suede Versace button-up. It was the worst day ever. Sherlock had to use every last ounce of willpower not to cry. He had other pressing matters to deal with anyway. He frantically looked around the convenience store, in search of Steve. He approached the clerk, mouth still ajar, and grabbed her by the shoulders, "have you seen a man—blonde hair, blue eyes, dresses like an old hag?" The woman winced as his fingers pressed harder into her shoulderblades. Recoiling, she shook her head no, and Sherlock released her from his grip. He cursed. _Damn it, I landed in the wrong 7-11. _Promptly, Sherlock accessed his mind palace, searching for an answer. He stood in the middle of an open room,

On the street, Sherlock tilted his head back and sniffed the air, as if he were a dog, inhaling the aroma of another's ass. After sifting through different scents, he finally found _him. _He could smell Steve Rogers' distinct apple pie and freedom essence from halfway across the globe. Locked onto his position, Sherlock leaned forward and broke out into a Naruto-style sprint.

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"GET OUT OF THE GODDAMN CAR! DO YOU THINK I'M FFF-UCKING AROUND HERE?!" The carjacker, now known as Max Wade, shouted. His hand (the one unoccupied by a stocky-ass looking rifle) snapped into a single, pointed finger, as shrieked racial slurs directed at Steve came out of Wade's mouth. Liquid diarrhea cha-cha'd real smooth down Guy's freshly ironed pants.

Guy had never experienced the harsh reality of poverty outside of his pampered lifestyle. As a scream was excreted from his mouth, his mind raced with inquiry as to how anything could drive a man to commit such a crime. Ignorant Guy, he would never understand the troubles of the sub-bourgeoisie. Steve trembled in his seat, using all of his willpower to not urinate in his American flag boxers. The last thing he wanted to do was turn it into the Land of the Pee and the Home of the Brave. Guy had to do some fast thinking. He stroked his goatee and made a halfassed Dreamworks face. He concluded that he could always get another 1967 Chevy Camaro SS Convertible, and thus decided to leave the situation.

"GOTTA BLAST!" exclaimed Guy, taking Steve by the bicep to get the hell out of there. On his third attempt, he successfully hopped the 2-foot tall convertible door and ran as fast as he could to the nearest 7-11. Guy stood in the doorway, breathless, and Steve stumbled in like a confused and frightened duckling in dire need of his mother, and probably Medicare.

Upon seeing the breathless man with liquid diarrhea running down his pant legs, the clerk took off his nametag and exited the building, resigning from his dismal job and vowing to wage war against the bourgeoisie, and maybe take up knitting.

"Guy, what now?" asked Steve. He looked around and couldn't help but notice the sizable hole in the ceiling of the building, and the rubble around the Slurpee machines.

"I'm not sure about you, bud, but I'm gonna get me a Slurpee!" proclaimed Guy, strutting over to the Slurpee machine on the other side of the business. He grasped a cup and lowered it to the spout, eagerly awaiting the frozen nectar to dispense. What he got instead was a remarkable kick in the jaw.

Steve would recognize the sound of that kick anywhere. It was Sherlock! He had been hiding amidst the rubble, waiting to spring on his prey like a panther crouching in grass or something.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed Steve, cautiously approaching the scene where Guy was now out cold. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

Sherlock approached Steve and watched as his watery blue eyes searched his own. "Well," he began, "when you forcefully inserted the scalpel into my loins and escaped with your new lover… the only thought in my mind was… fuck, my genitals are in pain. After I performed a penis transplant on myself using only the scalpel and a ballpoint pen, I realized that I needed to find you. When I thought about your shimmering green eyes, Steve, I knew… I want to win you back."

"But… but… I'm an asshole," whimpered Steve, tears welling in his deep brown eyes.

"Yes, but you're _my_ asshole," assured Sherlock. "Especially considering that now I no longer have one. That stab really messed up my anatomy. Thanks bitch. Furthermore, you may notice the rubble. I actually propelled myself from the heavens into a different 7-11 and came here to find you, but I wanted to make that same dramatic entrance here. For, you know, atmosphere."

Sherlock promptly picked up Steve by the American flag boxers and Naruto-ran out the back door.

"Wh-where are we going?!" exclaimed Steve, unsure of how to feel.

"Burger King," replied Sherlock. "I am forcefully taking you out to have some damn good American cuisine. I know better than that frosty-tipped mongrel."

AN: omg thankz 4 reading u guyz!1 im working really hard on the fic! 33 ^-^


	4. Chapter 4

Guy woke up in a cold sweat on the dirty floor of a 7-11. The manager of the convenience store loomed over him, prodding him with a broom.

"Dude wake up, you've been passed out on the ground for like, 3 hours."

Guy's eyes snapped open, as the realization dawned on him. That was 3 whole hours without food.

Guy rolled to his feet and groaned, "I need...sustenance…" He staggered over to the Slurpee™ machine, bending over to put his head under a nozzle. He put his greasy lips to the dispenser and pulled down on the lever. Blue raspberry Slurpee™ began flowing into his mouth, and he suckled at it, much like a calf greedily drinking milk from its mother. The liquid dribbled out of Guy's mouth, down his bearded chin, adding more stains to his flame shirt. He wanted to drown in it. Blue Slurpee was now running down his legs, and penetrated his New Balance velcro strap shoes. He continued drinking, feeling it run down his throat and fill his empty stomach. Suddenly, the stream of goodness ceased. He whimpered, discovering that the machine was empty. He lifted one of his Slurpepe covered sausage fingers to his mouth and lapped up the sticky liquid. Moaning, he inserted another digit into his warm cavern, rolling his tongue over it to taste the remnants of blue raspberry. Guy added another, and another, until his entire hand was down his throat. He pulled it out of his mouth with a wet pop.

The manager stood watching in horror, as he repeated the act with the other hand. When he was finished, Guy eagerly advanced towards the hot dogs. He carefully selected a juicy morsel with his saliva coated fingers, refusing to use the tongs set aside for that purpose. He placed his sausage on a bun, and waddled over to the nacho cheese dispenser. Guy smothered his hot dog with liquid cheese, and used what dripped on his fingers to spike up his hair. It had lost some volume while he was unconscious. Next, the man made a move for the chili. He inserted his cheese dog into the lukewarm chili dispenser with orgasmic pleasure. A butt's load of chili came spurting out of the machine, generously coating the hot dog. Guy knew how much a buttload of chilli was from past experience. Contrary to popular belief, chili does make good lubricant.

Guy pocketed his chili cheese dog for later, and approached the register. He dug for his wallet, but produced nothing. Frantically, he searched his pockets when it dawned on him that he had given Steve Rogers his wallet to hold before the carjacking incident. That name felt so foreign in his mouth. He had forgotten the star-spangled man even existed. Waves of memory came crashing down upon him, and Guy felt a tear roll down his cheek. He really missed his wallet. Also he needed to pay for the substances he consumed at the 7-11, or else the cops would show up, and he couldn't afford any more felonies. He was already banned from the state of Ohio for causing a famine.

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After an emotional reunion, Sherlock had hauled Steve Rogers to Burger King for a romantic dinner.

"Is this not some hefty American cuisine, Steve?" questioned Sherlock, gazing into Steve's mesmerizing hazel eyes.

"I, um, haven't eaten yet," replied Steve. He looked down at his greasy burger. He extended a finger to the food item, but hesitated when he saw the greasy bun slide away in a pool of grease, revealing the greasy patty, greasy cheese, greasy pickles, and greasy grease within. He sighed, remembering how Guy loved this sort of cuisine.

Seeing Steve's dissatisfaction, Sherlock dropped his arm on the table and slid it across, causing the trays of low-tier sustenance to fall to the floor. Sherlock began, "Steve, dear, perhaps I could microwave you some The Kid Cuisine™…"

Steve's emotions were extremely turbulent. He had a soft spot for The Kid Cuisine™, and Sherlock knew that. Sweat ran down his temples. His fists clenched and unclenched. A screech of intense indecisiveness escaped his lips.

Without Steve's knowledge, Sherlock stooped over to the floor where the scattered food was and pocketed the greaseburger in his limited edition $2,350 Yves Saint Laurent classic cropped single-breasted 2-button jacket in grey and black chevron wool.

"The Kid Cuisine™ will be in this room, if you still want it," murmured Sherlock, gesturing towards the unisex employee's bathroom.

Blinded by his desire for some choice Kid Cuisine™, Steve followed Sherlock into the room that emitted a distinct odor of greaces (grease and feces). After securely locking the crusty door, Sherlock extracted the greaseburger from his pocket with a sinister smile.

"I paid $3.99 for this burger, Steve," grumbled Sherlock, pinning him to the wall.

With the cheesiness of that scene from Lady and the Tramp™ Sherlock forced the moist greaseburger into the gaping chasm that was Steve's mouth, only to be interrupted by the cacophony of squeaky noises from the bathroom window. Sherlock knew this noise very well, the same one his mother's second lover would make when he would squeeze his 30 gallon potbelly through his 4'5 window every thursday- thinking back to this always made Sherlock shudder and die a little bit inside. Sherlock was not stupid, the lover was Guy Fieri, he would recognize the troubled groans from stomach indigestion anywhere as the man tried to squeeze his massive body through the tiny window.

"J-just go back to where you came from, ranchero," Sherlock weakly stammered as his plump boy lips began to nervously shake.

"You're hankering for a one way flight to Flavortown, amigo, now hand over the cash sack." Guy retorted with the confidence of a man whose wallet had been stolen.

Steve's recollection of the fatback shaped wallet in his back pocket hit him too late, Sherlock had already jumped up from the urine sodden bathroom floor, his bony fingers now three inches into Guy's underboob.

Sherlock's bone hand was traveling with great velocity- if action was not taken, then Guy's heart would be hit (on) in the most sexual way possible.

Guy pleaded, "Hey, MANNNN, watch where you're poking that sausage link! C'mon, I just want my fatstacks back." but it was no use, what the old warlock couldn't see, through his powerful sage eyes, was that Sherlock was too far gone: the primal urge to reproduce had taken over, it was fight or flight baby, and the Sherlick's semi only testified to his testosterone fueled rage.

Throughout the interaction between Steve's two lovers, tension had built, a cathartic release was the only cure for his ailment. It didn't take long for Steve to plot his ploy. Steve darted his perfectly manicured fingers into Sherlock's limited edition $2,350 Yves Saint Laurent classic cropped single-breasted 2-button jacket in grey and black chevron wool, pulling out the The Kid Cuisine™.

"Still fresh." he thought to himself after noticing how the erotic meal hadn't exploded yet.

Steve's training kicked in, with the flick of his wrist the The Kid Cuisine™ went airborne, landing, with the accuracy of a mathematician's wet dream, at a perfect midpoint between the two. Someone was going to slip on the lubricous meal, it was up to God now.

Guy and Sherlock struggled unknowingly above The Kid Cuisine™ , pacing back and forth, their scuttling feet missing by mere inches.

Sherlock's $10,512.95 Lucchese Classics Mens Black Alligator Belly Boot swung too close to The Kid Cuisine™- its gravitational force did the remainder of the work, pulling the reasonably priced shoe into it's succulent contents, and with the grace of handsome Squitward, Sherlock was sent flying 87 feet through the employee's restroom door, into the kitchen, and in the exact trajectory of the large grease fryers. Sherlock spiraled towards the grease trap in slow motion, while the choir sweetly sang Ave Maria.

Steve saw this and let out a matching slow motion "NNNOOONONOONONOOO!" but it was too late, Sherlock's handsome Squitward-esque fall was unstoppable, the grease trap was his destiny.

Sherlock fell like that for 43 minutes; it seemed as though the world stopped revolving in respect for the mighty fall. Sherlock eventually collided with the steel rim of the grease trap. In this moment, he was envious of Guy's New Balance velcro strap shoes; they were the only thing that could have saved his life. Sherlock's fragile boy body toppled over the rim, his tongue flashed over his lips one last time before his body submerged and the fryer grease coated his sexy body.

The aftermath was anti-climatic, to say. Business carried on, Steve was in tears, but we all knew that was going to happen. Guy made his way over to the fried body.

"Well, if you can't beeat 'em, eat 'em!" Guy said, adding a warm giggle to his own joke.

Guy pulled out his apron, the one with a picture of a nude man's front on it, and unhinging his entire jaw in the process, fit Sherlock's whole head in his mouth. He slowly worked his lips down Sherlock's neck, his lips were widest at the shoulders, but once that had been done, Sherlock's body seemed to cha-cha real smooth down Guy's sticky hot throat.

Guy let out a mighty belch.

The deed had been done. Sherlock was Shercooked, and was going to enter the process of Sherdigestion.

AN: This is a work of fiction, and is by no means intended to represent the true deeds of any characters, real or imaginary. If Guy Fieri himself is ever unfortunate enough to lay his eyes upon this, I apologize profusely. I must finish this work of literature; it is my dying wish. lol hope u likd it! 333 ^-^

**Also pls dont use chili as lube


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